


Make Him Pay

by Chzu (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Burns, Chemicals, Gen, Slurs, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Chzu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in Meg's perspective between seasons 7 and 8, Meg gets a makeover from the demon she hates the most. Contains torture and physical abuse, as well as use of restraints. Meg and Crowley-centric, <b>not romanticized and not shipping-related.</b> (Also contains lots of negativity toward Crowley.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Him Pay

Being on the receiving end of torture was no easy feat, even for demons. They were creatures with violent tendencies, born in blood, born from the perpetual torture that they were destined for; even so, the pain dealt to a demon was no worse. This was especially the case when being tortured by Crowley, the one that Meg despised more than any other demon.

It all started with a knockback and the dreadful words of,  _'The King of Hell will see you now.'_  Those words in particular rung in her head, even after she’d been transported to a remote location, even after she was restrained and unable to defend herself, escape, or even protest.

Why it was all so unexpected, the demoness had no idea. She thought she’d pinned down the idea that nobody was going to protect her — that she could get along fine on her own. Some part of her felt betrayed, though; truly, what was she expecting from the Winchesters?  _Of course_ , they weren’t going to bother protecting her. Why would they care about  _Meg_ , the demon who’d screwed them over in the past, who’d killed numerous friends of theirs? Her attempts to cooperate and make amends with them proved so meaningless.

As far as location went, Meg had no idea where she was, half of the time. She was kept blindfolded over the span of most of it, though it was safe to assume that locations changed from time to time. On occasions, when her mouth wasn’t stuffed with a dirty rag, and she had the opportunity to verbally degrade her captors, she’d snarl at them, “So, what  _luxury resort_  are we heading toward, today? I always thought the Bahamas made a nice getaway — the beaches are a little too salty for my liking, though.”

Comments like these resulted in severe beatings.

Still, she wasn’t one to submit to the greater powers — not unless she  _chose_  to, at least. Her causes were carefully selected and served with unfathomable dedication. There were a lot of things that confused her about the world, but she  _did_ know one thing for certain:  _Crowley was_ ** _not_** _her cause._  In fact, the only cause she had that pertained to him was driving an angel blade through his chest. Meg wanted nothing more than to see his end, and after a while, she eventually came to the conclusion that she’d rather end his life on the spot than drag it out with hours of torture. What she  _really_  wanted was to be freed from him entirely, to shed the anxiety that came with being hunted down by his dimwitted, thick-skulled henchmen. Was that really so much to ask?

Apparently, it  _was_.  _Oh, sweet Lucifer forbid_  she live some kind of peaceful life, for a change. 

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t, y’know,  _already_  had enough pain and misery. 

Nope, Crowley just  _had_  to contribute. What a douchebag.

He wasn’t always the one to torture her, of course; it was often his goons, when he couldn’t be  _arsed_  to tend to her himself. Crowley always sent in sloppy shitheads of demons, when he wasn’t around; they were vulgar as all Hell, and did nothing to ease on the slut-shaming insults. Honestly, she was unimpressed and offended that he’d send in such amateurs. Did these jackasses even  _know_  how important she was back in the day — how important she  _still_  was?

Typical demons. Not having an iota of respect for practical royalty. Azazel wouldn’t have tolerated their behavior toward her.

Then again, he was gone, just like  _every_  cause Meg served. They either died, or left her to die. Just as the Winchesters had, in the latter.

All of this brought her to where she was today, in some dingy room in the middle of  _whoever the hell knows where_. From the ambient sounds of it, it could’ve been a basement, perhaps a small storage cell — the lingering musky smell certainly supported that notion. Her sight was yet again impaired, though after a good amount of hours, footsteps could be heard, as could a voice that made her grit her teeth.

"Enjoying your alone time, darling?"

The demoness swiveled her head in the direction of the voice, letting out an irritated groan behind the dusty cloth that covered her mouth. Instinctively, she struggled against the restraints, only stopping once the footsteps grew louder and the sinking feeling within her became impossible to ignore.

"I do hope you’re prepared yourself for another  _exciting_  evening. I know I’ve taken  _my_  sweet time to decide just what I’m going to do to you.”

Meg’s response was nothing more than a harsh, shaking exhale, only more uneasy once she felt the other demon’s hand on her chin, tilting her head toward what was likely his direction. It took a world of self-control not to tremble entirely under his touch. Only after a moment of uncomfortable face-caressing was the gag pulled away.

Defiantly spitting a clot of blood that had accumulated in her mouth over time, Meg sneered in Crowley’s general direction,

"Good evening to you too,  _fuckwad_ ,” the brunette drawled, baring blood-painted teeth, “What’s today’s  _special treatment_  going to be? ‘Going back to sticking knives in places they don’t belong, or are you going to  _actually_ try something creative for a change?”

His grip tightened, “Now, now. That’s no proper way to speak to your King.”

“ ** _King!?_** " Meg blurted out, a more-than-audible cackle escaping her, " _Please_. ‘Bet you couldn’t even pull off a decent  _fry-cook_. What makes you think I’d bow to  _your_  pompous ass?”

It was a shame that she couldn’t see his reaction to her jab. She’d grown to find it amusing whenever he’d _overreact_  to the insults she spewed at him. Could someone say, hmm,  _over-emotional lowlife_? That might as well have become his name, at this point.

Sadly, his response was as disappointing as it was unnerving, “Now, now. We wouldn’t want to go  _too_  far with those insults. You might end up saying goodbye to that tongue of yours.”

Meg would’ve rolled her eyes at this, had the act been at all visible, “I’d be bored to death before you even got the chance.”

"Unpoetic as always," the crossroads demon slammed the back of her head against the hard wall she was leaning on, "I won’t hold that against you, you  _distasteful harlot_ , though you really should prepare yourself for a night of _fun_. I’ve got something special in store for you.”

There wasn’t a single spark of enthusiasm in Meg’s voice, “Try me.”

"Oh, I will, my pet. I  _will_.”

At this point, it was difficult to tell where she was going, through it was evident that she was being dragged to another location by some of Crowley’s men. The abrasive brush of the floor could be felt under her, and while she  _would’ve_  used this opportunity to get away, that wasn’t an option.

… _Oh, yeah_ , it should also be mentioned that her entire meatsuit was covered with sigils that locked her inside, and this had been the case since day one of being captured. That meant  _no_  use of powers, and  _no_  escaping unless she managed to carve the sigils out herself. That  _sure did_  make her life more difficult than it needed to be. At this point, there was no way of escaping unless she could rely on her body’s  _humble, humanly_  abilities.

It wasn’t long before she was abruptly greeted by the burning odor of…  _what was that, chlorine? Bleach?_ Whatever it was, it smelled absolutely repugnant, and it made the demon wrinkle her nose, scowling,

“ _Chlorine_ ,” she scoffed, “What are you going to do?  _Deodorize_  me to death?”

"Something like that, darling," she could hear Crowley’s ever-so-obnoxious voice behind her, "Why don’t you see for yourself?"

Off went the blindfold, just at that moment, and she was greeted with the unpleasant sight of a large metal washtub, filled to the brim with that very strong-smelling clear liquid. She stared down at it in disbelief, the sickening realization hitting her. Again, she began to fight against the ropes that bound her.

"Really, this isn’t going to be easier for  _you_ , if you insist on struggling. Be a doll and kneel for me, won’t you?”

“ _Hell no_ , I won’t.”

A swift kick to the back of her legs sent her onto her knees, face uncomfortably close to the chemical. Unable to gather enough of her demonhood to shield herself from the effects of the vapor, she could already feel a stinging burn in her eyes.

"You always  _were_  a disobedient one. Never took a single order. Do you have any idea how that makes me look?”

"Like  _garbage_? — Oh, wait, you’ve always looked that way.”

Instead of replying, the more advantageous demon grabbed a fistful of her tangled hair, plunging her head directly into the container. A stinging pain immediately enveloped her face, her scalp — whatever was contacting her skin, at this point. Meg gritted her teeth, trying so hard not to let any of the liquid into her mouth, yet all efforts to hold back screaming had failed, and she was certain that some kind of gurgled screech escaped from below the toxic solution.

With another tug, she was pulled from it, coughing and choking up mixtures of blood and bleach.

"Looking better already," Crowley droned, "I’ll have to send one of my boys to get a mirror for you."

"Go eat yourself," Meg stammered hoarsely.

Back into the chemicals she went, the familiar burning sensation only intensifying with every moment that she was held under. Hands tied behind her back twitched frantically, using all the strength within her to push her torturer away. Every time she tried harder, it only resulted in her being pushed deeper. The second time felt longer, too, and she was certain that some kind of chemical buns had already developed on her host body’s face.

Could it kill her? No. That had to be why the sick fuck derived so much pleasure out of humiliating her like this. She was durable, and she could last an eternity being tortured and violated, as far as anyone else cared.

When she was pulled out yet again, she could feel the sting on her entire head worsening. Still, she didn’t hold back on any sarcastic retorts, even though her throat was already raw, “What would Lucifer think?”

The crossroads demon snickered, “Your  _archangel sugar daddy_  wouldn’t think anything, sweetheart. He’s deeper in his own little  _torture cage_  than ever.”

Meg groaned, sniveling, “Enough with the pet names. Keep going, and I might end up puking all over your _precious, expensive shoes_.”

Unsurprisingly, this comment earned her another dowse in the bleach. It was difficult to count just how many times he’d done this, and for how long, though toward the end of it, after that last soak in the chemicals, her entire head and respiratory system were suffering.

"You know what they say about blondes having more fun," Crowley chimed, turning her to look at his asinine, smirking face, "I have to say — I  _love_  what I’ve done with your hair.”

As it happens, his earlier remark about using a mirror wasn’t an empty comment. One of his henchmen handed him a mirror, which he promptly dusted off with his sleeve. Meg shuddered when the mirror was turned toward her.

 _Absolutely disgusting_. Meg snarled at her own reflection, at the sight of her damaged,  **blonde**  hair. Sure, she’d had a vessel with hair of the same pigmentation before, but that was because she’d chosen that color. Not because it was  ** _forced_** ; if there was one thing she despised, it was when others tried to alter  _her_  meatsuits. They were works of art that  _she_  chose to alter, not… not  _this_.

"You know, Crowley, you  _really_  outdid yourself. You’ve just given me a  _new_  reason to murder you, when this is all over.”

"Who says this will  _ever_  be over?” Meg tensed at the sulphur-traced breath, Crowley yet again getting uncomfortably close to her ear, “You should’ve realized by now,  _whore_. No one’s even  _noticed_  your disappearance. Not Sam, not Dean, not even that flighty little angel of theirs — what did you call him, _Clarence_?”

She was seething with rage at the very mention of her nickname for Castiel, “That is such  _bullshit_.” 

The  _nerve_  this fucker had; she swore she was going to plant an angel blade right between his eyes — maybe even  _into_  one of them, if she was feeling particularly feisty. This wasn’t over. She  _would_  get free, and she  _would_ end Crowley’s life at the first opportunity she got.

"Is it? Because, if I recall, no one was  _ever_  interested in helping  _you_  out. You’re nothing but a nuisance in everyone’s eyes — a nuisance, and a good punching bag.”

Meg,  _usually calm Meg_ , had saved her burning rage for times like this, and it was certainly evident in the deadly glare she continuously shot at the other demon, “I’m going to kill you.”

"I’d like to see you try," he twirled a lock of the blonde hair between his fingers, "because, like it or not,  _Meg_ , you’re in here for the long haul.”

She didn’t receive another chance to retort before her face was covered again, the fabric far more abrasive than it had felt before. What a shame that she didn’t get a chance to make one last witty comment. Yet again was she locked away, in another indeterminate space. It was then that the  _smarmy dick_  bid his final adieu for the night, “Ta-ta for now.”

The former brunette lets out a sigh, the horrid mixture pain — both dull and agitatedly burning — lingering on her body. While she did feel bad about her meatsuit being ruined, what enraged her the most was that Crowley was getting away with all of this. Not only that, but he obviously got so much  _sickening pleasure_  from his so-called ‘ownership’ of her.

 _No_ , there was no way in the deepest levels of Hell that she’d ever submit to him. He could do whatever he wanted to her — demons didn’t have much dignity, to begin with. It didn’t matter. She’d never become his  _pet_. She’d never submit to him.

Instead, she’d wait. She’d get her opportunity. Meg’s time would come, and when it did, she was going to  _erase_ Crowley.

She just needed time.

She’d make him pay for this.


End file.
